


Two Years

by spiderfire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (no slash here), Bugs & Insects, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Gen, Hallucinations, Historical Accuracy, Hurt, Imprisonment, Missing Scene, Toulon Era, Valjean - world of sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:30:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderfire/pseuds/spiderfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his sixth year Jean Valjean escaped Toulon only to resist arrest when he was caught. He was sentenced to two years in double chains, which meant chained to his bed, for resisting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Years

**Author's Note:**

> “His second chance came in the sixth year and again he used it, but with even less success…the watch found him in the dockyard hiding under the keel of a vessel under construction. He fought against them, and for the crimes of attempted escape and resisting arrest the code prescribed the penalty of an additional five years, two in double chains.” Part 1: Fantine, Book 2: The Outcast, Chapter 6: Jean Valjean

Valjean sat on the plank bed with his knees drawn up under his chin, his left hand absently rubbing the scabbed knuckles of his right. He was aware of the heavy hammer falls that sent vibrations through the plank bed and into him, but he did not watch as the rivets were being driven in. Two years. Two years for a punch. This marriage, to a cleat on the floor instead of a living man, was no different than the others.

As he rubbed his knuckles, he saw again his fist connecting with the guard's face. Up until that moment, the whole thing was hazy. There had been a chance to run, and he had taken it. A few hours later, they had him cornered. Like the feral animal he had become, he lashed out. There had been the crunch of a nose under his knuckles. The wet blood that was suddenly everywhere. Then the blinding pain and oblivion as he was clubbed from behind.

He flexed the muscles in his back, feeling the tight lines of pain where the whip had cut his skin, and now new lines of scar tissue were forming. Over the last week in the hole, the headache had faded and his back merely ached unless he stretched the healing wounds instead of the burning with a constant fire.

Evening came and the salle filled with weary men. Someone commented, "Jean's back," and he could hear the word go around. "Jean-le-cric" and "the double chain, lucky bastard." and "Wonder why they did not put him up against the wall?" 

He slept for most of the first week. Exhausted and wounded, his body healed with the rest. After the first week, he began to understand how this could actually be worse than the docks.

His body, conditioned for hard work, rebelled against the confinement. He spent his days in constant motion-pacing the two steps his chain allowed, jumping in place, doing sit-ups until he was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Still it was not enough.

When he tried to sleep, he rolled this way and that, as wires of red agony traced along his legs and arms. It was not pain, but it was unbearable.

Once he rolled into the sleeping man next to him and the man elbowed him in the ribs. Valjean returned a punch to the face. The scuffle that broke out brought the guards who were free with their clubs. They did not put anyone next to him on the plank after that. 

*****

He had no idea how much time had passed. The constant need to move had faded into a constant twitching of his chained leg and a tremor in his hands. He spent as much of his time sleeping as he could. 

He awoke with a tickle across his foot like an ant was crawling over it. Absently, he swatted at it with his other foot and rolled over with a grumble. He tried to go back to sleep but the ant start crawling up the other foot. Using the shackle on his ankle, he scraped at it. For a moment, the sensation subsided. 

Pulling his cap over his eyes to block out the sunlight, he grumbled. A moment later the ants were back. Scores of them, this time. With a growl he sat up and swatted at his leg, tearing at the fabric of his pants. The scores of ants became hundreds, swarming up his legs, along his hands, up his arms.

Frantically, he swatted and tore at his clothes but everywhere he touched erupted with a cascade of tiny feet. He must have been shouting. Abruptly, everything changed. Cold water ran down his face, his arms, his legs. He blinked the water out of his eyes, to see a guard standing there, holding a bucket.

"It would help if you got up and moved your lazy ass, 24601."

Valjean just looked at the guard blankly. With a shaking hand, he wiped the water off his face. 

“You hear me? You hear me, 24601?” 

“I hear you,” he gruffly replied. 

“Next time, it won’t be a bucket of water.” 

Valjean just looked at the guard. 

*****

He had no idea how much time had passed. The constant need to move had faded into a constant twitching of his chained leg and a tremor in his hands. The sensation that was not quite pain, not quite bugs, faded into a burn that came and went. In this agony it seemed he was never quite awake nor ever truly asleep.

One day, an unfamiliar con and his chain-mate came and sat next to him in the afternoon, before any of the work crews were back. "Jean?" he said. "Jean from Faverolles?"

Valjean looked up at that, rousing from his stupor. He brushed the hair from his eyes, realizing he hadn't been shorn since they chained him to the bed. His hand shook as he ran it through his hair.

"I have a message for you. From your sister."

Sister. It took a moment but slowly an image formed in his mind. The weary, worn, pinch-faced woman who he had last seen surrounded by starving sunk eyed children, eight pairs of reproachful eyes. He had gone back out that night after a day of failure, only to fail again. “My sister?” he whispered, hoarsely. 

“You have a sister, Jeanne?” 

“I did, once.” 

“’I thought so.”

“What of her?” 

“She works in Paris. The youngest one goes to school. He is quite promising.” 

“She is well?”

The man shrugs. “She lives.” 

“And the others?” 

“I do not know. Scattered to the wind, I suppose.” 

“What is her message?” 

“She wanted me to tell you, should I find you, that she was sorry.” 

The sound of that echoed around in Valjean’s head. He sat there, saying nothing. When he looked up, the man was gone. He never saw him again. 

****

He had no idea how much time had passed. The constant need to move had faded into a constant twitching of his chained leg and a tremor in his hands. The sensation that was not quite pain, not quite bugs, faded into a burn that came and went. In time, even the visitors who he was not sure if they were truly there or just a dream stopped coming. In this agony it seemed he was never quite awake nor ever truly asleep.

The salle was empty, the work crews off for the day. A guard came and stood in front of Valjean. Without truly seeing him, Valjean looked up. “You’re done, 24601. You are off the double chain. Today you get your hair cut and meet your new mate. Tomorrow, it’s back to the dockyards with you.” 

Valjean stared at him. A man he did not recognize, although he must be a blacksmith from the shoulders, knelt down to break the rivets. The guard held a hand out to him. “Come on Jean-le-Cric. Time to get your strength back.”

**Author's Note:**

> Much of my understanding of the interior of Toulon comes from prudencepaccard's #toulon posts on tumblr. I also owe a thank you to Carmarthen and MissM whose various writings have contributed to my understanding of Valjean, as I tried to write him.


End file.
